


gifts

by wordtheef



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Out of Character, Prostitution, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 09:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: Jaime has a birthday and a problem; Tyrion rents him a gift to solve it.(modern-day pointless smutty prostitution au.)





	gifts

His phone lit. Tyrion. _Bought you a present. Do try and unwrap it._

A moment later:_ Happy birthday_.

Jaime dropped the phone back on the table. _I know what day it is, Tyrion_. Gods, he needed a drink. Another drink. But the pounding in his head wouldn’t get better with more hair of the dog that bit him — he wasn’t fond enough of alcohol to believe that much of a lie. So. Shower and coffee it was.

The hot water helped — a little bit — but room service was what he wanted.

He was just going to call down and tear the skin off someone when there was a knock. Good.

_Timing, _he thought. _Life is all timing. _His father’s saying. The bastard had complained of his own death — it wasn’t_ scheduled. _He had _things to do._

Jaime, who made it a goal never to have a schedule-book or personal assistant or more than one meeting in a month, opened the door.

It was not room service.

It was an astonishingly tall, rather plain-faced woman wearing severe, unrelenting black. She looked ready to go to a meeting — although he doubted she was anyone’s PA. More likely their lawyer, or parole officer. She had that sort of look to her. “Mr Lannister? Mr Jaime Lannister?”

For his part, Jaime wore only a towel knotted around his waist. Water still dotted his chest and arms; he hadn’t even dried off. It wasn’t even a tight knot. He said: “Am I being served?”

“Mr Tyrion sent me here. May I come in?”

“Wait. Tyrion, you said?” _Try to unwrap it,_ he’d said. Typical. “So you’re a whore.”

“The polite term is _escort_.”

“That only makes you an expensive whore.”

She made a motion with her hands: _as you say_. “He sent me. Are you sending me away?”

No. Yes. “I don’t — I haven’t—”

“Of course not.” Unbuttoning her jacket. “We’ll do anything you like. Take it slow.” She shrugged it off her shoulders — she had exquiste shoulders, muscled and broad — and dropped it to the floor. “Anything you want.”

Jaime didn’t _want_. That was the problem. For three years now, he hadn’t wanted. Despite medicinal assistance and therapy, strip clubs, burlesque bars, prostitutes, and a very amusing (occasionally confusing) night at a bondage club — he didn’t want. Cersei had killed all that.

The only thing this woman had in common with Cersei was blonde hair, and — he swallowed — extremely pink nipples. She was in some sort of corset top, skimming the waist of the black trousers, and —

and Jaime really hated his brother sometimes. “I don’t mean it like that. I’m not claiming any sort of purity. I mean that literally, physically, I can’t.”

She glanced at his towel. “I doubt that.”

How did Tyrion find the least-obedient whore in the entire city? “It isn’t your fault. I haven’t ... it’s been some time.”

The look on her face said she’d heard that before. “Let me try.” And knelt in front of him before he could protest.

Her mouth was warm, her hands were cool, and if he could only stop thinking about his sister she might be worth whatever price was on the tag. “Enough,” he said, after a minute, while she was in the middle of a complex movement with her tongue.

She removed her mouth but left her hand, rubbing the thumb over the tip of his cock. “Take off my pants.”

“I told you ...”

“I know what you said. Take them off.”

He unbuttoned and unzipped and slid them down over broad hips, beautiful thighs. A surprisingly round ass. Where had all this been hiding?

She was still stroking him. He was still holding on to her waist.

“Now my top, please.”

He was feeling ... odd. “You don’t want this. You’re paid to want this.”

She sighed, and pushed him down — not very gently — so he was flat on the bed — and crawled on him, straddling his hips. “So make me want it for real.”

How could he? without knowing ... but he ran his hand up the inside of her thigh, as he’d been wanting to do, and touched over the heat between her legs.

Her eyes were so blue.

_Blue_ eyes. Not green.

She closed them when he slipped a finger inside, and actually laughed when he took it out again and put it in his own mouth — partly for wetness, partly because yes, alright, he wanted to taste her. And her breast, too. The nipple firmed and darkened under his tongue and her cunt twitched.

“Good?” he mumbled.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

His left hand wasn’t especially skilled in removing clothes but she helped him — and distracted him — and by the time it was off, his cock was aching. Gods, it had been so long.

She slipped off his hips and took him in her mouth again and now he really was ready. Impossible. But he felt himself beginning to sweat a little. “Are you ... would you like to be on top?”

“That depends on—”

“What I want. Yes. Fine. I want ...” What did he want? “I want my hand inside you. I want you to ... I want my tongue in you.”

She hummed a little, mouth returning to the tip of his cock, and he changed his mind. “Yes. Like that. Ride me.”

She laughed again, soft, and straddled him — barely touching his cock.

Jaime complained.

“Shhh.” She dipped down a little — he felt the wet and tried to push up — but no, she wouldn’t allow that, would she? Another slow motion and the tip went into her, out again; another one and he was inside fully, a smooth practiced stroke. _Fuck_.

She rolled her hips and Jaime gasped aloud; she bent down and licked his chest and he couldn’t remember why he’d put this off so long. Therapy? who needed therapy? he needed a woman on his cock, his thumb on her too, the other rubbing at her nipple or digging into her waist while she moved against him, inside him it felt, while his legs shook and she dripped down, sweat and spit and come mixing together, “let go, let go, Jaime” in his ear

until he did at last.

He moved to kiss her and she shifted away, getting up, replacing her clothes with brutal efficiency.

Jaime, rather dazed, sat up and found his towel. (Why did nudity become embarrassing after the act?) He said: “What’s your name?”

She smiled at him — a practiced expression.

“Can I meet with you again?”

“Mr Tyrion knows how to contact me.”

“Wait,” he said, and “wait,” because she had a hand on the door.

The woman waited.

Everything he wanted to say felt stupid, ignorant. She was a hooker; wasn’t lust the oldest trick in the book?

Still.

“Thank you,” he said, finally. “That’s all. I was — not feeling well, and you were kind.”

She touched the side of his face — seemed ready to speak, but did not — and was gone.

He sat on the bed again, found the phone, and ordered the forgotten room service.

This time when the knock came, it really was coffee.

Jaime had never been so disappointed in his life.


End file.
